The grandeur of the lone old promontory;The distant bourne of hills in purple guise,Athrob with soft enchantment; high in gloryThe peak of Warning bosomed in the skies!

Oh all too fair to be so seldom seen,This shadowy purple on the mountains sleeping—This sapphire of unutterable sheen—This beauty-harvest ever ripe for reaping!

For what high end is all this daily boon,Unseen of man, in sightless silence spent?Doth lavish Nature vainly importuneThe unconscious witness of the firmament?

Or is it that the influent God, whose breathInforms with glory sea and shore and hill,His infinite lone rejoicing nourishethUpon the beauteous outcome of His will?Or is it but a patient waiting-whileAgainst a day when many an eye shall bless,From lowly cottage and imperial pile,This wide tranquillity of loveliness;—

Against a day of many-thronging feet,Of virtues, valours, all that builds and saves—

Of human loves responsive to the sweetMelodious importunity of waves?

I only know that this empurpled range,This golden shore, this great transcendent sea,Are now a memory that will not changeTill I become as they—a memory.